Mare was eager to break from the small company. She wished for some manner with which to demure from taking brandy and coffee in the parlor after the meal, but her mother would lock her in her room for the rest of the summer if she were to act so indecorously.
She sank onto one of the imported French settees, this one violet with golden embroidery-peacocks and roses and twisting plum branches-and Lilith sat beside her, guided by Theodore's hand.
"Ms. Atwood," he said with a polite nod, "I trust you remember Ms. Lilith Gilbert?"
"Ms. Atwood and I are quite familiar," said Lilith softly, violet eyes gleaming. There was something blank in Lilith, and cold, like a doll come to life but not imbued with humanity. Her snowy beauty lent her a bewitching air, however, and it was more than enough to attract the eyes of the company, willing or not. "We spent our last year at school teaching literature for the primary schoolchildren."
Theodore straightened. "Ms. Atwood has a fondness for books, then? I'd never have guessed."
Mare looked to Theodore in surprise. She found him smiling. "I don't care for them any more than anyone else, I'm sure."
"Oh, don't be modest, Mare," said Lilith, watching her with those unnerving eyes. "You were lavish about Austen; irreverent about the Brontës."
Mare almost flinched. She heard her mother in her mind: No boy wants a girl who's given her heart to books.
"Lavish," echoed Theodore before Mare could defend herself, tilting his head, "irreverent. I've never heard such words applied to Ms. Atwood. According to rumor, she thinks herself a cut above the company; displays of such passion would dispel the notion."
Mare bit her lip to keep from lashing back, but quickly realized that Theodore was teasing her, as he had earlier in the rain. She regarded him with as restrained a smile as she could manage, understanding his challenge. Lilith, she noted, watched them with renewed calculation.
"Clearly, my energy is far better spent protecting such rumors rather than dispelling them with truth," Mare answered. "All the better to conceal it."
Now Theodore smiled in full, though it was tinged with suspicion, or perhaps fascination. "Society would have us believe passion does not recommend a lady."
"Does it a man?"
"Contingent upon where it lies." Theodore had taken a step closer somewhere between their words, and he stood above Mare more than Lilith now, hands folded behind his back, as though regarding a particularly strange blossom encountered on a barren path. "In finance or trade it is acceptable; commendable, even. In the arts and abstracts it is as condemnable as a woman's."
"As society would have us believe," Mare answered, not missing a beat. She narrowed her eyes. "Which begs the question: what do you believe, Theodore Bridge?"
"I'm afraid I've lost track of the conversation," said Lilith, voice cold and soft.
Mare sobered at the same moment Theodore seemed to. She realized she'd gravitated to the edge of the settee and sat with her neck craned, angled toward Theodore like a flower to sun. He too had drawn close, head cocked, shoulders bowed forward. Both retreated swiftly, clearing their throats in unison.
Lilith regarded them mildly, eyes cool and hooded as a cat's. "Discussing rumor has already trespassed upon the grounds of ill form, though I'd expect nothing less of you, Teddy. Mare, however, seems usually quite aware of personal governance in social situations. Are you feeling quite yourself, my dear?"
Mare smoothed her skirts, determined to right the course she'd lost so quickly. Why had Theodore's words engaged her so? She supposed she found his challenge amusing; interesting, even. Particularly after their strange, private encounter in the woods. He seemed to enjoy riling her. And she couldn't help but relish his daring.
Here, however, was no place for such an exchange. Truly, there was no place for such an exchange. After all, Mare had been honest. She often strengthened the back of rumor where it served her. The image of her being aloof or silly or flirtatious or even insipid protected the darker truth: that she was a girl of deep passion and unseemly desire, obsessed with the novel and dramatic, insatiably romantic, woefully careless in the face of society's expectations.
The courting season had not even begun, and already Mare's mask was slipping. No thanks to Theodore Bridge. "You're right, Lilith. I'm not feeling quite myself. Perhaps some fresh air would do the trick. Excuse me."
Lilith laughed softly as Mare stood and made for the door, neck prickling with heat as the gentlemen rose in surprise. She was unsure what to do or say as she fled, so she merely curtsied to Mrs. Watt before ducking into the corridor.
Mare raced down the hall, steeped in shadow and lamplight, and burst into the back garden, hand pressed to her stomach. Only once she'd met the night air did she realize how stifling the Watt estate had felt. She closed the door behind her, waving away a servant that had followed, and quickly made her way between a smattering of small fountains and manicured hedges.
Her cheeks cooled, and she dabbed sweat from her brow. It was more than Theodore and Lilith's conversation that had shaken her-the entire evening had Mare gasping in the garden. She sank onto a cold marble bench placed beneath a lit lantern, relishing the warm glow and crisp wind from beyond the stone wall, beyond the woods, beyond the sea.
She'd been so careful these last months. After Matilde married in February, scrutiny over Mare's future courtship had increased exponentially. She was no different from most of the girls in her year. Though Mare's father was slowly hemorrhaging his savings as his work went dry, she was in a perfectly adequate financial position. She was expected to marry well, but not extraordinarily.
If it hadn't been for her sisters.
All four had navigated their courtships with cutthroat precision and single-minded devotion. Their investments had already paid off handsomely. Mollie lived in the suburbs of Philadelphia. Madrigal spent half of her year in London. Medley lived just north of Star's Crossing, in a mansion her husband had built to her exact specifications.
Matilde's new husband was the heir of a massive railroad franchise, and had plans to move out west, to the new and gleaming crescent of California.
Mare knew what Star's Crossing thought of the Atwood girls. Mare knew what they thought of her. Since Mollie's marriage years ago, Mare had known: she would be expected to do just as they had. Every step of her courting season would be watched with relish and malice, shadowed by rumor and speculation. Mare wouldn't be surprised if wagers had been placed on her expected hunt for a bachelor.
Mare would never have the romance she so desired. In her heart of hearts, she knew this. Why else would she cling to silly childhood letters? Why else would she write the truths of her heart and soul to an anonymous boy she'd never met?
A boy she may never meet?
Mare looked from her hands to a rose bush across the cobble path. She was to wear one in her hair at the gala tomorrow. He'd wear one in his lapel.
But if he saw Mare Atwood donning that dark bloom, would he cast his into the fire? Was it a public humiliation to be pursued by an aloof, silly, gold-digging legacy? Was it some kind of crude victory?
"It's cold."
Mare gasped, clapping a hand over her heart. Geoffrey had approached soundlessly, her shawl draped over one arm. He looked lovely in the lamplight, gold and amber, and he didn't bow when she saw him. "You startled me."
He nodded once, as though this were obvious, and offered her shawl. Mare stood awkwardly, turning, and he placed it over her shoulders.
"Thank you." Mare turned to face him. He looked past her, taking in the garden. "You didn't have to follow me. Is everyone concerned?"
Geoffrey smiled slyly, eyes sliding toward Mare. "You know how to make an exit."
Mare smiled back, hesitating, then sat again with a sigh. "I know how to make a fool of myself, too."
"Don't be too hard on yourself." Geoffrey sat beside her, hands folded in his lap. He'd grown less precise in his movements. He held himself with a kind of pleasant apathy, as though he might drift off to sleep at any moment. "These dinners feel archaic after boarding school. Meals are loud and quick. There's very little ceremony. But my family is set in its ways. They'll host these dinners long after they're out of style."
"I think one could argue they won't be out of style until they cease occurring altogether." Mare toyed with a loose thread at the edge of her sweater. "It's been so long, Geoffrey. I tried to write."
He nodded. "Post beyond family isn't allowed." He shot her a sideways smile. "Particularly from girls."
Mare laughed. "I can see it'd be a distraction."
"You missed me."
Mare looked at him. She'd seen him at functions over the years, during summer and around the holidays when the boys returned to visit. But no encounter had felt the same after he'd left the first year. They were still children when fall began, and by the next summer, it seemed a lifetime had passed. There would be no more wrestling in the surf or clambering up trees; no daring sword fights with branches, no splashing through the creeks or hurling snowballs.
Geoffrey's candor surprised her. She watched the firelight in his eyes, waiting for him to say more. He didn't. He didn't look away.
"Yes," she said simply.
"I should get back." Geoffrey stood, smoothing his jacket. "Mrs. Watt only sent me to deliver your shawl, and..."
Mare hugged herself. "It is delivered."
Geoffrey cracked a devious half-smile. "The gala is tomorrow. Have you decided who you'll be courting?"
Mare laughed in surprise. "It hardly works like that."
"I suppose you're right. It was worth a try." He turned toward the house, then looked over his shoulder. "Save me a dance, will you?"
Mare nodded, but said nothing, furrowing her brow the moment Geoffrey turned away. She looked back to the bush of red roses and held her shawl close against the late spring chill.
Her writer had vowed he'd don a red rose, and she would do the same. She'd spent years falling in love with him, years falling into his words and his pages, his heart. Meeting him would be just as beautiful. Just as unexpectedly perfect.
She had to be brave. She had to believe her story would play out the way she'd always dreamed it would. She had to believe that if she could fall in love with him on paper, she could do so in person. No more hiding. No more rumor. No more lies.
Mare was not following in her sisters' footsteps. She would marry for love and love alone, and no one in Star's Crossing was going to stop her.
Mare stood and dusted her skirts. Tomorrow, her life would begin in earnest. Mare marched back up to the villa, his words in her heart. He'd given her strength so long. She had nothing to fear.
Tomorrow, Mare Atwood was going to write her own destiny.